


After the Glitter Fades

by Sasskarian



Series: Glitter: A Modern Thedas Tale [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Detective Noir, Drama & Romance, F/F, F/M, Hawke & Varric Tethras Friendship, M/M, Modern Thedas, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Porn with Feelings, Rival Relationship, Smut, Snarky Hawke, Sorry Not Sorry, i promise it is a loving healthy relationship it just starts off in irritated denial, this universe exploded on me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2018-12-15 18:06:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11811387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sasskarian/pseuds/Sasskarian
Summary: What happens when a rising starlet falls for her mysterious, grumpy co-star? Calamity, hilarity, and maybe a little bit of love. In the newest production from Tethras Studios, Varric Tethras outdoes himself as he struggles to bring together two people absurdly perfect for each other, even if he has to push, pull, or set up a giant romance subplot to do it.Things take a turn for the strange when it seems like the cast has side-stepped into one of their own films and life starts throwing curveballs at them.





	1. Winging It

**Author's Note:**

> Someone help, I'm drowning in this Hollywood AU. I've brought it here to its own section because I have a feeling it isn't going to leave me alone for long.
> 
> Edit: 11/28/17 - Yeah. I was right. It didn't leave me alone. Instead, it exploded in my head and now not only do i have a marginalia file, but i also have a prequel, and oh, yeah, _an entire actual plot that fell on my head like a damn acme piano!_

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the smallest sound, Fenris leaned in, his gauntleted fingers sliding through her hair as he kissed her-- it started out soft, a chaste brush of warm lips and warmer breath, but within a couple of heartbeats, it had deepened into something that promised wildness and fire.
> 
> “And CUT!”

**Setting:** Hollywood Modern AU; Veterinarian!Anders AU: Sexually Tense Coworkers AU; Modern Thedas AU

 **Note:** This plot bunny wouldn’t leave me alone, so there's more.

***  
***

“If there is a future to be had,” Fenris murmured, his lips hovering near Hawke’s, “I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

His gorgeous green eyes were fixed on hers and Hawke fumbled for a moment, a half-smile playing across her mouth as her fingers played with the crumbling stone behind her; she almost wanted to _believe_ him. With the smallest sound, Fenris leaned in, his gauntleted fingers sliding through her hair as he kissed her— it started out soft, a chaste brush of warm lips and warmer breath, but within a couple of heartbeats, it had deepened into something that promised wildness and fire.

“And CUT!” Varric called over the hooting of the studio assistants as he leaned her against the wall, her arms snaked around his neck. “Hawke! I said cut!”

Coughing and rubbing the back of her hand over her mouth, Hawke pulled away from Fenris and stomped towards her best friend and director, lips still stupid and tingling. “Tell me,” she began, a growl in her voice, “please. Tell me that is the  _last time_  I have to kiss him for this stupid movie.”

“Actually, there’s one more, after the final battle!” Varric’s assistant trilled, her hands clasped together over a noteboard; Merrill was rarely seen without a blinding smile for everyone. “You two are so lovely on film together, Varr—”

“That’s enough, Daisy.” Varric shot her a glance, then turned to Hawke, hands spreading in a congratulatory gesture. Hawke narrowed her eyes; his smug-director smile was broad on his face, and that always meant trouble. “Hawke, you genius, that was _beautiful_.” Fenris stalked over to tower over Varric next to her, and spoke before she could hone in on Merrill’s slip, or Varric's attempt to butter her up.

“Do _not_  write another romance scene,” he snapped, voice more gravelly than normal. “I should get hazard pay for having to kiss that harpy.”

“Harpy?” Hawke demanded, rounding on Fenris as her fists crackled with lightning. “I’ll show you a harpy, you little— Garrett, put me  _down_.” Garrett, Hawke’s twin brother and a valuable member of the security team (precisely for moments like this), hooked her around the waist, putting himself between her and her co-star as he hauled her backwards. When she hissed at him and took a swing, Garrett simply ducked, letting her bounce off of his arm instead of his chin, and slung her over his shoulder.

Fenris just smirked at her.

“That is deliberate provocation _,_  you  _ass_ ,” Hawke swore they rounded the corner. “I should have taken your other eyebrow off, too!”

***

“Can you  _believe—_ ” Hawke spun on her heel, pacing the opposite way down her narrow trailer. She looked over at her other best friend and sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Could you stop playing with my cat and at least pretend to be sympathetic?”

Anders smiled up at her, serene in the wake of her fury. His face was thin and long, mouth a touch too wide, but he’d been her first love and there wasn’t a more handsome man in all of Thedas as far as she was concerned. Even after their love story had been interrupted by college and then by Anders’ clinic, he was still Her Standard For Men. And she definitely was not thinking that Fenris, that  _broody_ , snarling elf with his— his stupid  _tattoos_  and  _mysterious past_  and stupidly pretty green eyes could give him a run for his money.

 _Infuriating bastard,_  she thought sourly.

“Hawke, you’ve been complaining about him since he got the role of your love interest,” Anders pointed out, his smile growing smug. “You were complaining about him  _before you met him._ ”

Hawke huffed and threw herself on the couch next to him, immediately curling under his outstretched arm. “And?” she grumbled. “Varric told me it would be historical action, not  _romance._ Mage riots aren't exactly a candlelit dinner!”

“Well,” Anders continued, one hand running down her arm while the other scratched her purring traitor of a hellbeast, “from what I’ve heard from Garrett, maybe he’s not so bad. Hey!”

He jerked back, flattening himself against the couch as Hawke’s head shot up and narrowly missed his chin. Incensed, she swung her legs over and straddled his lap, her hands pinning his shoulders back. “How could you say that?” she demanded as the cat landed on the floor, giving them a disgusted glare. “Anders, stop _laughing!”_

“Darling, if you could see your face,” he murmured, eyes going soft and fond as he brought his hand up to cup her cheek. “You really don’t know yet, do you?”

“There’s a lot of things I don’t know,” Hawke retorted, sliding her hands from his shoulders down his chest. The slight hitch in Anders’ breathing was no less thrilling to hear now than it had been ten years ago. “But…” She trailed off and leaned down until her nose brushed his with a small spark. She was tired of thinking about Fenris. And angry enough that burning off some temper would help. “There’s a lot of things I  _do_  know.”

Anders groaned as his hands found her hips, clever fingers rucking the hem of her shirt up to dance across her skin. “Why do you torment me like this?” It was clearly a rhetorical question as he closed the gap between them, pulling her down for a kiss. 

Hawke’s murmur of, “Because you love it,” was lost against his neck as he stood, her legs locked around his hips.

***

“Have you considered,” Anders asked later, hand trailing sparks in the air above their heads, “that perhaps you don’t actually hate him?”

“You want to talk about the bastard now?” Hawke rolled over and propped herself up on an elbow, incredulous. “Not ten minutes after catching your breath, you want to talk about  _Fenris_?”

“I’m just saying.” He brushed his still-sparking hand across her cheek, smiling. “As much as I love you-- and you  _know_  I love you-- this isn’t our future, birdie. Our ship sailed, even if we keep revisiting the port.” His browwaggling was over-exaggerated, but he had a point. Their relationship as it existed was warm, friendly, and comfortably familiar, the way a favorite shirt fit. It just happened to have an occasional side of sex with it.

She groaned and laid her head on his chest. As his heartbeat filled her ear, Hawke let her mind drift into the past. It seemed like so long ago that she’d had him in her arms, their dreams tangled together in the Fade. Their lives were supposed to have been messy and glorious, a childhood romance turned into a happy-ever-after, both twined around each other’s until she couldn’t tell where Marian Hawke stopped and Anders began. They’d talked about the future, about marrying. Having a family.

If she closed her eyes, she could still see the dreamed-up children they’d talked about having late one night, hoped-for, ideal, something to work towards. Perhaps a little girl with the blue Amell eyes and her father’s tawny hair. Or a hazel-eyed boy with black curls and a penchant for ice spells. It had seemed like such a  _good_  dream. But in the end… that’s all it was. Marian had started off in magic, determined to become an Enchanter in the College of Magi and somehow ended up in the drama program where she’d stumbled over aspiring writer-director Varric Tethras.

Maybe if they’d gone to the same college, majored in magic together. Maybe if Carver hadn’t joined the Templars right out of high school and broken their mother’s heart. Maybe if Anders hadn’t found out that he had steady hands and a love of animals. Maybe if she hadn't fallen apart after her mother and uncle were murdered. So many maybes and no real answers.

“All right,” she conceded at last, running her fingers through the sparse golden hair across his chest. “You seem to know something I don’t, so spill.”

***

“You had me worried,” Fenris whispered, crushing her against his breastplate. Lightning forked overhead, turning the rain covering Kirkwall into drips of silver. “I thought you weren’t coming out of there. Orsino--”

“Gone.” Hawke’s fingers curled in his hair as she shook, the blue-green fire fading from her fingertips. She blinked the blood out of her right eye as he touched the gash with a quiet noise of distress. “He’s gone.”

Fenris pulled back, cupping her face as his eyes searched for more injuries. “But we’re still here,” he murmured, brushing his lips across hers. It was hardly a kiss, really, more a breath warm against her skin. Hawke knew he had a second line, but Varric always went on about “feeling the character” this and “improvisation” that. So that’s exactly what she did: she winged it.

Her fingers tightened in Fenris’ hair as she lifted herself almost off the cobblestones, crushing her mouth to his. Any timidness or doubts, she threw out the window, putting a little of everything she was into that kiss. As she drew back, Fenris followed her, chasing her lead like a fox scenting a hare. She heard his sharp, surprised inhale before he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her even higher, his teeth on her lower lip. Hawke couldn’t stop the moan that tumbled out of her as he licked away the sting, his odd lyrium tattoo flashing in the small space between them.

The staff she carried fell to the ground and Fenris kicked it away with a growl, ripping himself away from kissing her breathless just long enough to make sure he didn’t trip on it as he walked her backwards. The rain sheeting down the Gallows wall soaked the back of Hawke’s robes almost instantly, but she didn’t have time to feel the cold before Fenris was pressed against her, anchoring her to the wall. Body heat blazed out from him as his mouth found hers, their hands tangling together.

“Fen--”

 _Sweet Maker,_  she had time to think, right before Fenris licked into her mouth and any coherent thought left in her head flew away whistling. Very far away, she could hear someone yelling, but when Fenris bit her lip a second time, actually  _growling_  against her, practically vibrating with want as he seared her with kiss after steaming kiss, she stopped noticing. Rogue waves from the Waking Sea could have been sweeping them away for all she cared.

There was no sound but the way Fenris’ armor clicked as she arched against it, unsure if she was trying to get closer or get away. The rain kept falling, running over her face, but the only thing she could feel was his hands as he found a weak seam in her robes and  _ripped,_ his touch a hot brand on her skin. Hawke gasped against his mouth, every sense filled with him, every nerve ending in her body on fire and _alive_ in a way she'd never really felt before. Her fingers sparked in his hair, control over her magic going haywire as his lyrium lit up and he tilted his head to nip at her neck.

***

Varric Tethras looked at the raw cut of the film, the cameramen still shooting even with their jaws hanging half to the floor. Small arcs of lightning rippled out from the two of them, racing from Hawke's skin to Fenris', and even over the roar of the rain spell-weavers, the growl in Fenris' throat was audible. 

“It’s a good take, yes?” Merrill asked, bopping excitedly on her feet. For weeks, she'd insisted that there was _something more_ to the way Hawke and the elf circled each other, wary and angry. The way they clashed-- and occasionally broke things or set them on fire,  _thanks, Marian_ \-- had looked more like wolves searching for a weakness than unresolved sexual tension. But, he had to concede, Merrill had a way of looking at people and stripping them down to their cores in a way he didn't always bother to.

Varric looked at the notated script in his lap, sighed deeply, and shoved it off onto the floor.

“Better ending than I had planned, anyway,” he admitted. He turned to his second assistant. “Grab the writing team. Maybe we can have some voice-overs to tie up the loose ends.”

***

Hawke sat in the small dressing room to the side of the set. While most of the cast by and large preferred their trailers, Hawke had asked Varric to put this room in.

Living with anxiety could be difficult. She knew her case was mild, that Bethany and Carver suffered more from the condition, one bearing scars and the other under a pressure she could only imagine at. She’d only had a panic attack once while on set, but it had derailed shooting for three days-- and Varric never  _had_  been able to save that one box of props from the fire. This room had saved a lot more than that, afterwards.

Merrill had murmured something soothing as she’d pressed the warm towel into her hands and discreetly guided her to it, but Hawke couldn’t remember what it was. Everything around her was fogged, time slipping in gaps and odd lengths. She swore she could still feel Fenris’ armor-- plastic and fake leather-- pressed against her chest, and the ripped seams of her costume were embarrassingly real.

Maker, she’d  _wanted_  his hands on her and hadn’t given a damn who’d have seen. Never had a kiss so completely obliterated the world around her, but damned if that broody elf hadn’t shaken her to the very core. What the hell had that been, anyway? Sure, she’d initiated the kiss but… shit, maybe Anders _was_ right.

“You’re one hell of an actress, Hawke,” Fenris’ voice interrupted from the doorway. He’d already changed out of the prop armor, leaving him stripped to the waist as he toweled off. The sight of him half-clothed really shouldn’t have made her mouth go dry and her heart-rate double-- the few love scenes Varric had written into his movie had involved both of them in various states of undress and her tongue had certainly never dropped out on the floor before.

But then again, those scenes were all scripted. They were just doing a _job_. But now she knew what he tasted like, what sounds he made when she slicked her tongue across his. She’d felt his hands  _ripping her clothes off_  and that… seemed to make all the difference.

“And of course,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You’re not even listening.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, trying to hide her shaking hands in the towel. “I was-- you-- it doesn’t matter. What were you saying?”

“I said, you’re a damn good actress.” Those green eyes bored into her as he rubbed the silver strands of his hair. “You almost made me believe it was real.” Was it just her or was there a trace of bitterness there? Did he want it to be real? Did  _she_  want it to?

 _I... think I do._  What a beautiful, thrilling, terrifying thought.

“Part of the job, right?” she asked instead, twisting the edge of the towel nervously. “What are you doing after filming tonight?”

Fenris blinked, his drying tapering off until his towel hung around his neck, and he stared at her, eyes narrowed.

“I just--” How could she make this seem casual? “I’ve been pretty hard on you and-- I thought I could buy you dinner. Start over.” Carver’s wry voice floated through her head:  _Smooth move, Mar. I could sand a patio with that kind of smooth._

The silence between them grew awkward, until the only sound was the drip of rain from her hair on the floor. Hawke forced a laugh, even knowing it sounded too loud, too false. Two years of working together in animosity and, at least on her side, reluctant attraction, might be too much to make up for with a dinner.

“I mean, you’re probably-- you have things, I’m su--”

“Make it drinks and I’ll do it,” Fenris interrupted her, the sharp point of his ears reddening as he rubbed the towel over them. “Contrary to popular belief, not knowing who I am leaves my schedule fairly open. It’s you or my punching bag and I’m not sure it can handle another date with me so soon.” His smile was small and bitter, a grimace more than anything else.

It broke Hawke’s heart a little to see.

“Drinks, then,” she confirmed, giving him a tentative smile. “Eight okay with you?”

***


	2. Connections and Collisions

**Characters:**  Marian Hawke, Fenris, Varric Tethras, Anders, Merrill

 **Setting:** Hollywood Modern AU; Veterinarian!Anders AU; Sexually Tense Coworkers AU; Modern Thedas AU

 **Warning:**  This is a  _very long post._ And it’s only part  _one_. (this plot bunny got away from me. Quickly.)

 **Note:** Part 2 of the FenHawke Hollywood AU; Part 1 can be found in the previous chapter

***

* * *

***

Hawke stared. “You want me to  _what_?”

“Take Fenris as your date,” Varric repeated. To Hawke’s mind, her friend-slash-employer sounded far too calm about such an arrangement. “Look, there’s every projection that  _Tale of the Champion 3_  is going to be the breakout hit of the winter season. The two of you are a power couple on film, your fans are going to expect to see you acting that way in public even more after the romance amped up.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, grabbing her wineglass with a shaking hand, hating that she couldn’t hide it. “I’m still stuck on the part where you want me to take  _Fenris_  as my  _date._ ”

“You act like I’m asking you to go toe-to-toe with the Divine, Hawke,” Varric laughed, setting his fork aside. Hawke wanted to laugh with him, but she didn’t have it in her. The months since filming had concluded had been happy and bright, for all of three glorious weeks. Until, in true Hawke fashion, she’d stuck her foot in it.

Whatever he saw on her face made him pause and reach out to take her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “What’s going on, Marian?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head, draining her glass and giving the waiter a sharp nod for a refill. “It’s nothing.” Hawke tried for a smile, but could feel the telltale tightening in her chest that meant she was courting panic if the conversation didn’t take a turn for the better.

“ _Nothing_  doesn’t look like puppy eyes and heartbreak, kid.” Varric was  _studying_  her now, something she thought she’d ridden him of in college, at least when it came to her. “I’ve written enough tragedies—”

“Varric,” Hawke warned. She couldn’t do this right now. “It was nothing. Nothing happened.”

***

Everything had happened.

Four months ago, Hawke had made the mistake of asking her broody co-star out for drinks. Drinks that night had led to dinner the next. Which had led to a solid week of finding reasons to get together—lunch, walking her dog, going for a run. She’d expected for them to have little in common, for the flash and burn she felt when she was near him to fizzle out as they both peeled back their protective layers and found themselves incompatible.

That hadn’t been the case.

Hours spent talking over a bottle of wine had revealed Fenris to be a surprisingly deep, intelligent man. That was something she’d admit—even to herself—that she’d ignored or glossed over when they started working together. When she’d mentioned a love-hate relationship with the writings of Genitivi, those green eyes had lit up and they’d parted ways hours later, exhausted, heads full of debates, and smiling.

And oh, how she’d fallen for that smile. Fenris had a way of looking at her and smiling without somehow ever moving his lips, and it never failed to make her heart stutter.

Wine and talking had led to another dinner, this one… different. More eye contact, more small smiles and easy words. He’d played with her fingers during dessert. And when he’d kissed her in the car she’d ordered, when he’d taken her hand and invited her through his door, she’d gone willingly. Happily.

She’d woken later in the night, his limbs tangled with hers, and realized that somewhere along the way, she’d tripped and fallen in love.

This wasn’t sinking into the warm familiarity of Anders, or any of the flash-in-the-pan dates she’d been on in the years since. Fenris made her…  _feel._  He infuriated her, met her every challenge, made her feel  _alive_  for the first time since her mother had died. The past month had exhilarated her.

It also terrified her.

So, like a  _coward,_  like a  _fool,_  she’d tiptoed out of his house in her best impression of a Kirkwall footpad.

Hawke pressed trembling fingers to her lips, knowing that with the barest effort, she could sink into the memory of that night. She could feel his lips on hers, the way he’d guided her hands around his tattoos. She could still feel him beneath her as she rose up on her knees, his hands tangled in her hair and marks on her neck from his teeth.

They hadn’t spoken after she’d left. All she had to prove it happened was a hastily-grabbed shirt—his, ironically, taken by mistake—and a cell number that had been disconnected a week after.

***

Fenris growled under his breath, turning sharply on his heel and stalking to the other end of his living room. 

The sharp smell of boiling wine and hot glass filled the room as the bottle he’d hurled into the fireplace burned. The cell phone he’d disconnected sat on his desk. It was dead by now, but in the week before he’d turned it off, it had shown at least twenty attempts to call Hawke, her line barely ringing before he hit End Call, frustrated and confused and all together  _wanting_.

That, more than anything, was why he’d disconnected it. He couldn’t trust himself to be reasonable around her.  

Damn woman had burrowed under his skin well and good. The day they’d first met, he remembered the arrogance on her face, the dismissal, as she’d raked him over with her eyes and then turned to the little director and said, “This had better be a joke, Tethras.” She’d apologized, sometime during their brief… what, courtship? Was that what it had been? Apologized and laughed, sheepish, joking that he wasn’t the only prickly, guarded person in the room.

There’d been no trace of that arrogance in the way she’d looked the last time he’d seen her, laying sated and soft in his rumpled sheets. Fenris had looked at the marks he’d unintentionally left on her skin, at the flush that had covered her from fair cheeks to breasts, and thought about how  _dangerous_  she was. It was dangerous to want the way he did. But the lure of a partner, of someone who accepted him—with his baggage, the lost memories, all of it—was strong enough to let himself drift into sleep, curled around her.

He’d woken alone. Not even a note to prove she’d been there.

Fenris wrapped his arms around his chest, too lost in thoughts to hear the buzzer of his door. It wasn’t until he saw a second shadow on his floor that he realized he wasn’t safe. The lyrium tattooed across his skin flared to life, the icy-pain-pleasure of it sweeping through him as he prepared himself for—

“Whoa! Easy there, Elf!”

“Varric?” Fenris pulled his charge at the last second, skidding across the wood and stumbling when he hit the carpet. “ _Fasta vass,_ ” he snarled, glaring at the dwarf. “I could have killed you, fool.”

“Thought we should have a chat.” Varric ignored the threat, pulling his coat off and throwing it on the hook by the door. He did a very good job of hiding the tremble in his fingers, getting ground under his metaphorical boots quickly; Fenris was as impressed as he was annoyed.

Varric made his way past Fenris, wandering through the hall until a delighted-sounding, “Ah  _ha_ ,” marked his finding the liquor cabinet.

“Are you here to intimidate me?” Fenris asked, pretending he was amused by the notion. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, watching as Varric’s companion shut and locked the door. “I didn’t take you for the godfather- style threatening sort.”

“Pfft,” was Varric’s answer, taking the first sip from his glass. “Ooh, that’s  _good_ ,” he murmured, eyeing the decanter as the other man—tall, lanky, blond—sat on the far side of the room, back to a corner.

 _Smart,_  Fenris thought.  _No sneak attacks for this one._  He turned to Varric and opened his mouth, only to fall silent as Varric chuckled, easing himself onto Fenris’ sofa.

“I told you when I hired you that I’d help you look into your past. I meant that.” He swirled the brandy in his glass, watching as it caught the firelight and looking far too at ease for a man who’d almost met the bad side of Fenris’ temper— Varric was either stupidly confident or his own brand of dangerous. “I also told you that I’d protect you from whatever was hunting you. I meant that, too.”

Fenris gave a short nod. Varric had been true to his word, more reputable than many directors who would have taken on a half-starved fugitive with no memory of why he was running, where his abilities came from, and no known acting experience. Only once, early into filming the first installment of Champion, had anyone tested Varric Tethras’ protection—and Fenris knew better than to ask what had happened to the men sent to collect him.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt Hawke.” Varric’s voice dropped somewhere closer to disappointed than menacing; Fenris still found himself flinching. “We have a month until the premiere, and I brought a mutual friend who’s known Hawke even longer than I have. You look miserable, and Hawke is miserable, and so the three of us are going to talk about this until you figure out whatever it is you need to figure out.”

“...and if I figure out that I can’t do this?” Fenris asked quietly. He’d been tormenting himself with those thoughts for months— had he frightened her? Had he  _hurt_  her somehow? Maker knew Fenris was strong; what if he’d somehow hurt her and she was too upset to tell him? Fuck. “That I need to go?”

 _Maybe she'd be safer away from me._ And that was the rub, wasn’t it? He didn’t actually  _know_  anything. All he had was a fistful of fears and a still-burning want in his blood for what he’d glimpsed that night.

Varric took a deep pull of the brandy, closing his eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm.

“Listen, kid. Hawke is my oldest friend and I’d say I know her pretty well. Now, I don’t know what happened, but I’m willing to bet it’s not what you’re afraid of, given that hunted look on your face.” He poured another glass and set it on the side table with a nod at Fenris, then refilled his own. “So why don’t you drink some of this fine—” Varric looked at the bottle he’d snatched. “Fine Tevinter brandy and tell me your side of things.”

Fenris ignored the glass and snorted, pacing the length of the room. Caught as he was between the two of them, his temper hovered just under his skin, making his tattoo flicker warningly. “I am  _not_  having this conversation with you, of all people,” he growled, feeling far too trapped.

“Clearly, you aren’t having this conversation  _at all_ ,” Varric snapped, setting the glass down with a clink; he took a deep breath, and forced himself to smile. “And you know? That’s fine. I don’t  _need_  you to. I just need you to sit down, shut up, and  _listen._ ”

Fenris stared. Varric’s face looked craggy in the firelight, his brown eyes hard and flat. In his two years of filming under Tethras Studios, the man had never looked so… intense.  _Own brand of dangerous, indeed,_  Fenris’ instincts whispered.  _Treat lightly, friend or no._

“That is,” Varric continued, his breath harsh in the silence, “if you  _can_  listen with your head stuck so far up your lyrium-painted ass.”

His companion snorted softly, hands up defensively when both of them turned to look at him. “Sorry. Just. You know. Leave it to the writer to come up with the good dialogue.”

***

Hawke rolled over, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. Her phone buzzed insistently, knocking against her headboard.

She grabbed it, saw Varric’s number, and threw it across the room before burying her face in her pillow, chasing more sleep.

***

“Huh.” Anders— having finally seen a chance to introduce himself, now that neither of the men seemed likely to kill each other— handed Varric his phone back. “Not answering. Probably threw it, if I remember how much she hates being woken up.”

He turned to Fenris, sitting with his hands clasped around the glass Varric had offered earlier. Every inch of him read as cold disdain… except for the leg bouncing nervously.

“Here’s the thing about Marian,” Anders said softly. “She deals with emotion by not dealing with it. Not until she’s forced to.” Those fierce green eyes came up, narrowed in question. “When her mom died, she refused to talk about it for over two years. Just… threw herself into acting, working, anything to distract herself.” He thought, for a moment, about mentioning Hawke's past vices but... that wasn't really his secret to share, was it?

“Same when Carver got himself injured in the Templars.” Varric worked diligently at his second glass of brandy, frowning. Anders knew the dwarf well enough, after these last years of friendship-by-association, to see the cogs turning in his head. When something didn’t work out the way Varric Tethras wanted, he’d poke here and rearrange there until it suited him. “You running away from her when she ran away from you? Just added another loop to the spin cycle.”

“The— but—” Fenris sighed, fisting a hand in his hair. “I don’t  _understand_.”

“Join the club,” Varric muttered. “Hawkes will turn your world on its head. Taken me years to figure them out.” He cleared his throat and handed Anders a glass as well, looking immeasurably tired. “The solution I have in mind is only going to work if you meet me halfway, kid.”

Fenris looked up from his brandy and narrowed his eyes even further. “Solution?”

“Ah, you  _are_  listening. Good.”

“Oh, no,” Anders murmured. He choked down a laugh along with a hefty swallow of brandy— he could already see where this was going. Varric may have become known for his gritty, historical movies, but the man had a romantic streak wider than the Frostbacks—  _and_ the connections to carry out whatever plans he dreamed up, in most cases.  _Hawke might kill him._

Varric looked his quarry over carefully, pulling out his cell again and looking through his contacts. “Mm. Yeah. She’ll do it. She’ll bitch at me for it, but she’ll do it. Can’t stand to see a pretty in something that isn’t perfectly tailored.” He hit the call button, holding the phone away from his ear as the woman on the other end snarled some  _very_  rude Orlesian words. “ _Mon petit chou_ , my dove, my enchantress, my  _queen_  of fashi—”

The click was audible from across the room, and Anders had to bite down on his knuckle to keep from snickering.

“Well then.” Varric gingerly slid the phone away, as if waiting to see if it burst into flame. “She’ll see us in the morning.” His eyes raked Fenris from the tousled silver hair to the bare feet tapping anxiously on the floor, a slow, sly  _smile_  spreading across his face. “We’re going to need to measure you for a tux. How do you feel about Ferelden cut?”

***

“Why am I going dress shopping with you?” Hawke mumbled, yawning. “And couldn’t this have waited until a decent hour?” Behind the dark sunglasses, her skin was pale and drawn, a testament to how poorly she'd been sleeping for a while.

Varric blinked at her as he steered her through the marbled storefront with a golden V on it. “Hawke, it’s ten in the morning. Most people consider  _this_  a decent hour.”

Hawke grumbled, hugging her coffee close as she bared her teeth at people venturing too close.

***

“Oh, my lady!” Orana’s mouth dropped open when she unzipped the protective bag for Hawke’s dress. “It’s not even on you and it’s gorgeous!”

Hawke chuckled, toweling her hair dry. Orana had been a Maker-sent angel the last few years. What had started out as a temporary live-in domestic position had turned the girl from temporary to permanent, and from stranger to dear friend. “You like it?” she asked. “Varric suggested the designer. Said she was an ‘old friend.’ I’ve learned to stop asking when Varric says stuff like that— I want plausible deniability for whatever he’s up to. And he bribed me with coffee.”

Orana giggled as she hung the dress from a closet hook and came over to help Hawke struggling into the foot-killing shoes that the designer had insisted on.

“Marian!” Garrett pounded on the bedroom door. “Varric just texted!”

“Maker’s saggy left  _nut_ ,” she swore, fighting with her ankle strap. “What does he want now?”

“Says to, and I quote, ‘pack a bag of real clothes, too.’ Apparently, he’s covering your hotel in Starkhaven.” A pause. “You’re getting a hotel in Starkhaven?”

Hawke frowned. Varric was generous to his friends— and after ten years, they were definitely damn good friends— but what she jokingly called her Varric-sense was tingling.  _He’s up to something,_  she thought, frowning as Orana began combing her hair.  _I just know it._

Two weeks ago, before Varric went all ‘Say Yes to the Dress’ on her, Hawke finally cracked and told him about Fenris. In front of Merrill and Varric and Anders, she’d given them bite-sized pieces of the story over a game of Wicked Grace. With the dwarf’s sneaky way of asking exactly the right question and Merrill’s sympathetic noises, the whole sorry, sordid affair had tumbled across the table along with her gold and the cracked pieces of her heart.

Maker, but it had been weird to sit across from Anders and say, “I’m in love with a broody elf and I think I ruined my chances with him.” She’d expected some sort of reaction from him— a smirk, a smile, anger. Something. Instead, he’d just wrapped his arm around her and smiled in that same gentle way that had tripped her heart up when they were kids. “It’ll be okay, birdie,” he’d murmured, kissing her temple. “You’ll see.”

Hawke rubbed absently at her chest, at the ache that had never quite dissipated. In the past months, she’d been more prone to attacks than she liked; her therapist assured her that it was likely just the additional stress of the premiere coming up. Secretly, Hawke thought a part of it might be what Varric had asked her to do. When she’d admitted that she didn’t know how to get ahold of him, short of marching up to his house, Varric had patted her knee and promised to take care of it; all she had to do was show up.

Because that was just  _so_ reassuring.

“My lady?” Orana’s face came into view. “Mister Garrett just brought these for you. He said they were sitting on the doorstep.” She held up an armful of flowers and there, nestled in the center, was a plain card. Hawke took them with trembling hands, already knowing who they were from.

_“What’s wrong with roses?” Fenris asked indignantly. “I thought women liked the overblown thing.”_

_“Some women, maybe,” Hawke replied, sloshing a bit of wine on her jeans as she snorted. “Not this one. My job is creating fairy tales, Fen. I… like things that are real.”_

_He was quiet for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. “Like what?”_

“Hyacinth, violets,” Hawke whispered, repeating her words from that night. “Jasmine. Maker, he found fucking  _jasmine_  in Kirkwall?” She thrust the flowers back at Orana, breathing hard as she gripped the edge of her vanity. The sharp wooden edge cut into her palms, the pain and pressure keeping the room from graying out. Bit by bit, the knot in her chest started to unwind, and she could breathe almost normally.

She wanted to hope but it  _hurt._  Oh, it hurt.

“Can— could you read the card? Please?” She asked, not looking up.

Her knuckles were white on the wood as Orana murmured, “‘See you on the carpet. Talk after?’ It’s signed ‘F.’”

***

“I can’t do this,” Hawke whispered to Varric, her hands shaking around her clutch. “I can’t face him like this.”

Varric smiled and took her hand. “You can. Breathe, Hawke. It’ll all work out.”

“Varric—”

“All you have to do is sit through the movie,” he promised, squeezing gently. “And after that, you can go right to the hotel. The afterparty is for schmucks like me to wine and dine and rub our superiority in other directors’ faces.”

The car slowed as it approached the palatial Starkhaven theater. Shaped like a ziggurat, it stretched towards the sky almost as tall as anything in Kirkwall. A large banner featuring Fenris and herself hung over the entrance and a red river of carpet ran from the curb to the door, between crowds containing friends, fans, and reporters. Briefly, Hawke saw the tall, blond visage of Anders hovering near the door and felt something in her chest start to uncoil— even if the figure in black waiting near the drop-off broke her heart, her two best guys were here to help pick up the pieces.

Her chin came up, and the calm, collected mask of Marian  _fucking_  Hawke settled into place over her. She could do this.

She  _had_  this.

***

It took every ounce of self-control that Fenris had to not stare at Varric’s car as it slowed— the anticipation was killing him. Anders nodded reassuringly at him from the doors, flashing him a brief smile. For an ex-lover— well, ex was a negative word— for a  _former_  lover of Hawke’s, the veterinarian had been surprisingly supportive in the last few weeks. And his advice had been invaluable.

_“Marian is a curious creature,” Anders said, moving a pawn across the chessboard. “She wants love, but she’s terrified of it as much as anything.”_

_“...I can understand that,” Fenris muttered, draining his glass. The feelings that burned in his chest every time he thought about her were frightening, indeed. Anders smiled at him as Fenris took his knight._

_“You’re being suspiciously helpful, for someone who used to have her,” Fenris observed, watching Anders watch the board. "Why?" The man was quiet for a long moment, long enough that Fenris started to grow uncomfortable, before he spoke._

_“Marian never belonged to me,” Anders said softly. “Not really. She’s never belonged to anyone but herself.” He reached for a pawn, thought better of it, and moved his queen. “She has a thousand and one masks, each tailored to a different situation, each designed to protect her deepest self. But when she talked about you?” Anders looked up, caught Fenris’ eye, and tipped his king to end the game, despite Fenris being nowhere near checkmate. “No masks anywhere in sight.”_

When he heard the click of the car door opening, Fenris turned, tugging at his cuffs as Marian stepped out. When he raised his eyes and met hers, he felt the air  _whoosh_  out of his lungs.

Maker, but she was  _devastating._

Those blue Amell eyes were ringed in black and silver, a subtle shimmer above long, dark lashes. Her mouth was a generous slash of deep red, curved up on one side as she looked him over. A swath of the same color covered her from shoulders to heel, save for a slit on the side that flashed a staggering amount of thigh as she strode toward him.

Cheers erupted around them as he remembered to hold out his arm in time and he felt her fingers close over his elbow. Fenris couldn’t stop himself from leaning over as they began walking towards the door and kissing her cheek, taking the chance to whisper in her ear that she looked stunning.

“Well,” she smirked, waggling her fingers at a group of girls near the roped-off area. “One of us had to, yes?”

It took a second for him to realize she was teasing, and when he did, he couldn’t stop the smile-- he could even forgive the fact that said smile caused several cameras in the vicinity to flash as they photographed the two of them. He’d been so worried that he’d lost this, the easy way they collided with each other; if things went as he wanted them to, they’d be snarking at each other long after this affair was an entertainment headline and a pleasant memory. Relief filled his heart, elbowing aside the worries that had eaten away at him, at least for a while.

When his fingers ghosted over the small of her back, whatever he’d been about to say was lost in the fact that he could feel her bare skin instead of the lace he'd expected. Under the pretense of looking back to see Varric exiting the car, Fenris glanced and saw just how _low_  Hawke’s dress was cut— he'd assumed from the fabric covering her arms and chest, she'd chosen a modest dress. But it curved down, enticing and suggestive, to show the strong, muscled planes of her back. Accenting the open skin was a single silver teardrop and chain, tracing her spine from the nape of her neck to dip of her waist.

His mouth went dry as the cheers followed them through the doors.

Maker  _help_  him.


	3. NSFW: Something More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris didn’t think he was a religious man, but the slide of her tongue along his, hands moving from back to shoulders to hair as he stole her breath, was as worshipful as any prayer. If all he had from here out, if the only memory he retained was of this, of kissing Hawke long and slow and impossibly goddamn _perfect,_ he’d die a happy man.

**Characters** : Marian Hawke, Fenris, Varric Tethras, Anders, Merrill

**Setting:**  Hollywood AU; Modern AU; Veterinarian!Anders AU; Sexually Tense Coworkers AU; Modern Thedas AU

**Recommended Listening:**  [Say You Love Me - Jesse Ware] [Dive - Ed Sheeran]

**Warning** : This is a  _very long post._  Also, in case it needs said, there is some preeeeetty explicit smut in this post.

**Disclaimer Note** : Much of the dialogue in the beginning of this piece and the Fenris/Anders/Varric portion of part 2 came from the lovely and brilliant Istrael here on Ao3

***

***

Even Hawke had to admit, Merrill was right.

She and Fenris looked pretty damn stunning on film together, a study in contrast. Lean and lithe, he wielded a two-handed sword with an ease, and breathtaking  _grace_ , any warrior would envy. Paired with herself— shorter, more compact, arms twirling a staff to fling spells around him— and the rest of the cast, each of them blending together to bring ancient Kirkwall to life. But best of all— and worst of all— was the way the love story unfolded on the screen.

She felt his hand brushing down her arm, but the mask she’d hidden behind in the car was too heavy to let her react just yet. Every time there was a kiss or tender look between their characters, every time his gravelly voice rumbled out her name, she took a sip of the Orlesian Champagne the waitstaff was keeping her glass filled with so that she didn’t have to look at it.

Probably a good thing, if she was honest with herself. She wasn’t drunk, by any means, but the bubbles were smoothing out her rough edges enough to make this bearable. Otherwise, she might have run from the theater and headed straight back to Kirkwall to retire and join the Chantry. Surely the life of a laysister wouldn't be filled with temptations like the one sitting next to her.

Right?

Their shoulders brushed every time one of them breathed. His fingers danced tentatively with hers, as if he wanted to take her hand but kept pulling back at the last minute. With a glance, she could see him from the corner of her eye, all artfully groomed silver hair and rich, golden skin. His black, tailored jacket had parted to show a matching vest, subtly threaded with silver. And—

She blinked, turning her head to stare.

The red ascot at his neck was the same color as her dress. Exactly. And fastened with a small, enameled hawk pin.

_Varric Tethras, I am going to murder you_ , she thought, torn somewhere between disbelief and instant, white-hot anger.  _This is all a giant set-up. I knew it._

***

“You little  _shit,_ ” Hawke snarled as Varric’s back bounced off the wall of the antechamber.

“The very same,” he said around a grin. In the right light and on any other person, it could have looked nervous. “You’re less drunk that I’d thought, so. Progress! I’ll take it.”

Hawke stalked forward, grabbing for him as he darted under her arms, flattening himself against the opposite wall. “You  _did_  set this up!” she accused, whirling on him. “I’m not hallucinating a coincidental color coordination and infuriatingly literal visual pun as an  _accessory_.”

Varric clutched at his chest, dramatic and with a ridiculously smug expression on his face. “Who do you take me for? Someone who wouldn’t pull exactly this sort of stunt to make his best friend happy? You wound me, Hawke. I’m  _wounded._ ”

“You're gonna be wounded in a minute,” she growled. “This isn’t one of your  _movies,_  Varric! You can’t just toy with people like— like—” To her mortification, Hawke felt her eyes start to burn with tears and growled. Her hands curved into claws, crackling with energy as a low, cautious voice called from behind her.

“...Hawke?”

Hawke spun around, electricity still arcing between her fingertips, as Fenris raised his brows. “Anders said I should come find you and keep you from murdering Varric.” He looked pointedly at her, probably looking every inch the wild, feral apostate Kirkwall’s Templars had so feared. “Seems he was right.”

“He  _set this up_ ,” she spat out, unsure if she was more hurt or furious. Maker’s fucking  _breath,_  and she’d almost bought it hook, line and—

Fenris nodded once, looking far too calm. “Yes.”

“And he—”  _Wait a minute._  “You  _knew_  it was set-up?” Hawke’s hands fell to her sides as she released her grip on the spell. Her brain was too busy adding one and one and getting fifty to worry about Varric slinking towards the door— wisely keeping Fenris between himself and Hawke. “How?”

“I was in on it,” Fenris admitted, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. “Varric and Anders helped me understand a few things. I’m grateful to them. We have… we have a lot to discuss.” He extended a hand, palm up. Hawke stared at it, a curious catch in her chest.  It didn’t feel like a panic attack— it didn’t feel like… anything she could put words to, except she had the most ridiculous feeling that he was offering something she desperately wanted in the palm of his hand, something she’d been mourning the loss of for months

Hesitantly, she reached out and laid her palm in his, afraid to hope.

***

“I thought you said we should— mm!— we should  _talk,_ ” Hawke gasped, her fingers buried somewhere under Fenris’ jacket as his teeth grazed her earlobe. Unsure if she was keeping herself up by clinging to him or if he was keeping her against the wall so she didn’t fall over, all she could think was  _I’m going to die if I don’t get his hands on me._  She arched against the wall, tugging the offending fabric off and throwing it to the side, fingers going for that ridiculous ascot next.

“We should,” he agreed, lips moving down her neck; Hawke could feel her damn toes curl. “We should absolutely talk.”

Fenris pulled away just enough to look her in the eye, a half-smirk curving his lips. And she knew— she  _knew_ — that if she told him they should talk now, that this was a bad idea, he would back off. Which is why she felt absolutely confident in her breathless, “ _Later_.”

Hawke’s laugh trailed off into a moan as his teeth found the bend of her neck and grazed, setting her nerves on fire. The seams of his vest shredded under her sparking fingers when he sealed his mouth against her skin and sucked, making her knees buckle. “Stop laughing,” she murmured, tilting her head and trying to catch his lips. “Not nice.”

“Marian.” Fenris pulled back, his eyes fixed on hers as he ran his thumb along the curve of her cheek. Her eyes fluttered at the soft gesture, heart so full of hope and nerves it was almost painful. “Whoever said anything about being nice?”

She arched one brow at him. “So you plan to just ravish me against the wall, then?”

“Are you opposed?” He dropped his hands to her hips as his brow lowered to hers, and his breath was hot across her cheek as he asked, “Do you want me?”

Hawke considered, hands restless on the sides of his neck. There was more to his question than sex— that much was clear. She had no doubt that if she said no, he would help put her back to rights before leaving her to rest; Fenris, for all his growls and strength, was one of the most careful, consent-conscious men she’d ever met. That he managed to let Varric orchestrate this coming-together was enough of a surprise.

_Do you want me?_

She’d seen him with (movie-set) dirt and blood streaked across his face, had seen him warm and damp from a shower, relaxed and vulnerable as he slept, a smile curving that sinner’s mouth. The way he stood in front of her— vest tattered, shirt pristine, hair tamed and slicked back— made a girl want to grab him and ruffle him up, leave him marked and  _hers_. Because under that carefully groomed, walled exterior, he was as vulnerable as she was. The scars on his heart went deeper than the lyrium streaked across his skin— she couldn’t imagine what it was like to have no idea who you had been— and the few snips of his conscious life he’d let her see were far from safe and happy. And he  _deserved_  to have something safe and happy in his life.

_Do you want me?_

There was a raw sort of hope in his eyes as he waited for her answer. So when she slid her fingers higher, tracing the shell of his sharp ears, she brushed a soft kiss across his mouth, answering every layer of his question in a whisper. “Yes,” tasted like a vow falling from her lips, a promise humming between them that she wouldn’t run again.

***

_Yes._

Fenris actually felt his heart stutter as her whisper-soft kiss shook him to his core. He’d never put any stock in the fluttering-hearts romantic tales of people communicating without words like this but… he’d known when he asked that he was offering more than his body. If she’d accepted only the physicality between them, he’d find a way to handle it— he wouldn't ever press her for more than she could or would give. But, Maker, he wanted more _;_  he couldn’t stop himself— everything in him whispered her name the way waves whispered as they kissed the shore.

And even still, with all that needed to be repaired— or even just clarified— between them, he’d had no expectation for her to answer in the same way.

_Yes._

He struggled to find something to put him—  _them_ — back on an even footing. “Okay, but I’m going to take your knees out from under you,” he promised. When his eyes opened, he saw the wicked curve of her smirk, a hint of that arrogance he’d admired and resented in equal measure. Funny that, now, it just made him want.

“You can try,” she dared, her chin stubbornly tilted up. And oh, he loved that she challenged him. Hawke wouldn’t be who she was if she went easily into anything. “I don’t fall easy.”

_Is that so?_  Fenris thought with a smirk of his own. He slid down to his knees, hesitating as his hand closed on the slit fabric. Hawke must have noticed, because her hand came to rest on his jaw, her thumb stroking the back of his ear.

“May I?” he murmured, resting his head against her hip. He wouldn't touch her without permission. If she told him to go now, it would be difficult—  _Maker_ , it would— but he wouldn't betray the trust building between them.

Her hoarse, “Yes,” was all he needed to hear.

He folded the fabric of the dress up, tucking it between her back and the wall to expose long, creamy legs topped by the tiniest scrap of red lace panty he'd ever seen. Part of him wanted to chuckle, to laugh at the notion that such a garment could be anything but mere decoration, but most of him was just admiring; he'd been fascinated by Hawke’s legs the last time he'd seen them, too. Strong rather than lean, muscle in place of softness. And still, when he pressed his lips against her thigh, warm and smooth as silk.

Already unsteady on her towering heels, Hawke sighed and followed his nudges to spread her legs farther, one hand flat against the wall for balance. The lace of her panties caught on his calloused fingers, and a wicked idea came to him. Fenris looked up, watching her. She thought she couldn’t fall? He knew how to put that to the test.

“Is this okay?” he asked, curling his fingers under the edges of the lace and lifting slightly.

“Yes,” she whispered, biting her lower lip. For an actress, Hawke had some very visible tells off-set— her cheeks were already pinking, just as they had last time.

_She should work on those,_  Fenris smirked to himself as he slowly pulled the lace up, instead of down.  _It might get her eaten alive by wolves._

He chuckled at his own joke as she sighed, longer and lower than before, when the lace came to rest between her labia. Hawke started to say something, likely something smart-assed, but within seconds, it dissolved into a moan at the first touch of Fenris' tongue, warm even through the lace.

***

_Oh, sweet Maker_ , Hawke thought, mind going pleasantly buzzy at the first touch of Fenris’ mouth.  _He’s going to be the death of me._ Her next breath was shaky and she had to lean harder against the wall as her ankles wobbled. Varric’s designer had insisted on ridiculous, impractical heels and she could already feel the burn along her inner thigh as she struggled to stay upright even as her hips canted towards him.

Infuriatingly, deliciously, his lips skimmed down, whispering across the inside of her thighs. She felt the touch of his tongue like a brand on the side of her knee and his hands circled her ankles, stroking as he made his way north. He pressed gentle, sucking kisses along what had formerly been her panties and were now a sodden scrap of fabric  _in the way_ and she growled, tugging at his hair.

Fenris chuckled, because he was a terrible  _jerk_  who apparently wanted to drive her  _insane,_  and slid his fingers up the back of her legs, nails rasping against sensitive skin— she jerked against him as he palmed her through the lace, pressing up with just the right amount of force to make her mewl with the change from soft to not. “Doing okay up there, Hawke?”

“Keep going,” she commanded. Or tried to. It came out breathless and pleading, and that was something she’d be irritated about later. Maybe. Eventually. When Fenris didn't have his head buried between her thighs, humming with satisfaction as he drew un _holy_  sounds from her.

***

Fenris hooked his thumbs under her panties and worked them down. The lace was almost completely soaked through, and as she stepped out of them— red-faced, breathing hard, fucking  _gorgeous_ — Fenris eased one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her wide and nearly dripping for him. “I hope you weren't too attached to these,” he murmured, nipping the inside of her thigh. “I'd rather like to keep them.”

“You— but—” Hawke’s head thumped lightly against the wall, her hands buried in his hair. “Fine. Yes. Whatever you want. Perv.” His laugh was soft and light, and he followed it by easing two fingers into her as his lips found her clit again. It was easy— it was so  _easy_  to pull her into his mouth, to lick down and taste the salt-sweet-musk of her rolling off his fingers as she panted, almost half bent over him as she struggled not to clamp down.

“Fuck!” she hissed as her other leg buckled, and Fenris kept her from falling by planting his hand against the wall and letting her rest against it as he dragged the flat of his tongue against her. Her thighs trembled around him and the spike of her heel dug into his back, but the way she bucked and sobbed as he fucked into her slow and steady was more than worth his discomfort.

“I— I need to take these off,” she panted, all but babbling. “The heels.”

Fenris looked up, watching her face. “Leave them.” He curled his fingers and held her gaze as he lowered his head again, loving the way she watched his tongue. “I like the way they look on you,” he murmured against her.

“Oh, fuck,” she whimpered when he eased her other leg over his shoulder, leaving him the only thing supporting her off the ground. Her heels dug into his back, sharp and stinging, but it didn’t hold a candle to the way she shook and shuddered around him as he drove her higher. He could hear the sound of something crackling around them, but didn’t have room to care with his tongue buried in her cunt-- his entire focus was on the woman trembling and pleading in front of him.

There hadn’t been much time during that one night to learn all her tells, to find out all the spots to make her gasp and moan. But, judging by the way she was grinding against his mouth, curses and pleas tangled around his name (and Maker but the way she moaned his name was  _sacrilege_ ), by the way she fluttered around his fingers, he was doing something  _very_  right. She was close— he could feel the tension ratcheting up in her body, and fuck, but he needed to hear her, to see her undone by him.  _Mine_.

Changing the angle of his hand let him curl his tongue just into her and she arched up, almost yanking a handful of hair out as she came, shouting.

Hawke gasping out, “Fen _ris_!” as the fluttering turned into three strong pulses, as she shattered around him and her juices ran down his arm and chin, was one of the best things he’d heard in a very long time.

***

Hawke was dimly aware of Fenris sliding her legs down, holding her hips so that she didn’t tip over. Gentlemanly of him, considering he was the reason the bones in her legs had mysteriously disa _-fucking-_ ppeared. She must have said something to that effect, because he stood, kissing the corner of her mouth and murmured, “Well, I did warn you.”

“Jerk,” she said agreeably, voice not quite shaking; she was rather proud of that, in truth. Now if she could just get the rest of her body under control.

“How do I get you out of this?” Fenris kissed the other corner of her mouth, and she could taste herself on his lips. Some small, half-forgotten part of Hawke’s anxiety-brain admonished her for finding that incredibly hot— she fiercely told it to shut up.

“Didn’t Varric tell you how to peel me out of it?” Hawke tilted her head, trying for a smirk; if it was weak and romance-heroine dazed, she was glad she couldn’t see it. “I’m surprised. He seems to have thought of everything else.”

Fenris laughed breathlessly, kissing her again. “No. He did trust me to be somewhat capable, at least.”

_Oh, you’re capable, all right,_  she thought, dazed. “There’s a— on the— mm, there.” His fingers closed over the impossibly tiny zipper hidden in a seam and, with a small tug, the dress split at the hip, hanging loose. Hawke wasn’t sure what she was expecting from here out— perhaps for him to come to his senses, or to shove the dress off, or… something. But she wasn’t expecting him to lace their fingers together and kiss her breathless.

_Bloody_ fucking  _Maker._

If their last kiss on the set of Champion had been barely-controlled fury, and the kiss against the door to his house had been just the right amount of endearingly awkward and obscenely hot, this kiss was as easy and natural as side-stepping into the Fade and shaping the world with your thoughts.

Heat pooled low and heavy in her belly as his teeth grazed her lip, as he sucked away the sting— along with a damn good deal of her self-control. And when he licked into her mouth over and over, hot and wet and perfect, she rose on her toes to meet him thrust for thrust. She could taste champagne on his tongue, along with herself, and something heady,  _intoxicating_ , that she’d tried so hard not to remember, to long for.

He freed one hand and cupped her jaw as he slanted his mouth over hers, swallowing her moan as she grabbed a fistful of his shirt.

“Off,” she murmured, pulling. “Please.”

***

For probably the first time in his life, Fenris didn’t feel like he was running from a clock. His last night with Marian had been a mixture of sharp, desperate want and sexual tension and a pinch of temper all coming to a head. Now, as she shivered and shook in his arms, he thought he could pretty happily spend the rest of his life just kissing her like this. Fenris didn’t think he was a religious man, but the slide of her tongue along his, hands moving from back to shoulders to hair as he stole her breath, was as worshipful as any prayer and if all he had from here out, if the only memory he retained was of this, of kissing Hawke long and slow and impossibly goddamn perfect, he’d die a happy man.

If she’d stop trying to rip his shirt off.

“Patience,” he chuckled, feeling lighter than he could ever remember. Was it madness to feel so free? To teeter on the edge of love, afraid to fall in, afraid to step back? Probably, but he didn’t  _care_. “It buttons in, see?”

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Hawke said, blinking. Her eyes were thin lines of blue around pupils blown wide with pleasure.

Once he’d shown her the stays, she was faster than him at getting them undone. Her fingers were already flicking across the front buttons by the time he’d managed to throw the (ruined) vest somewhere to his right and when he felt her palm slide across the bare skin of his chest, she  _purred._  His tattoo flared, as it always did when a mage made skin contact, but to his surprise, there was no pain— just the cool touch of Marian’s hands as she eased the shirt from his shoulders.

Then she leaned her head back and sighed with pleasure. “Maker, but you’re  _beautiful_.”

Fenris was too surprised by her statement to protest when she flipped their positions, clever fingers already working on the fastenings of his trousers. It hadn’t been the first time he’d heard the words, but  _Hawke_  saying them— Hawke, with her legions of admirers, with her ancestry tracing back to the very mage riots they’d filmed about, with her fine-boned looks and dazzling eyes— meant something else.

Something more.

She pressed her lips against the side of his throat before kissing up behind his ear, tongue tracing the same path as the lyrium. Her teeth scraped along his ear and he shuddered, nerves firing all the way clear to his feet. His hands found purchase on her waist as she trailed down his shoulder, leaving nips and kisses in equal measure.

“Do you trust me?” Hawke asked quietly, catching his eye as she peeled the dress the rest of the way off; there was no art to the way her skin was exposed, no deliberate seduction, and still, he couldn’t keep his eyes from treasuring every new inch.

Fenris nodded, throat closing at the sheer emotion in her gaze. He’d seen her eyes go glassy with lust, with satisfaction, he’d seen them cruel and cold.  _A thousand and one masks,_  Anders had said, and Fenris had seen many of them. And yet... _n_ _o masks anywhere in sight._  He understood now. As he looked into Hawke’s face, there was nothing there except warmth and adoration.

He was seeing Marian Hawke as she was, laid bare of her defenses, and she was every bit as stunning as he’d expected.

He could only give her the truth, improbable as it was. “Yes.”

The smile she graced him with started in her eyes, rather than her mouth, and Fenris took it like a punch to the gut— his breath floundered, leaving him drowning and thrilled about it as she brought her hands up and flattened them against his chest.

There was something uncertain, startlingly  _vulnerable_ , in her eyes as Hawke whispered, “Don’t let me hurt you.” She waited for his nod before her fingers lit up with a slow, low buzz of magic and edged towards the line of lyrium curling across his collarbone.

Fenris gasped _,_  arching, and grabbed her wrists. His first reaction was to pull her away, to end the ice-fire-lightning licking through his nerves. He couldn’t tell if it hurt or didn’t— it was all confusion and a low-level roar of instant arousal that left him trembling. But after the first second, the tension rocketing through his body slowed, allowing him to breathe and feel her magic crackling through him.

She’d been careful, their first night, to direct any accidental magic away from him, a fact he was grateful for; something dangerous and forgotten slithered along the edge of his memory, telling him with the bone-deep surety of trauma that he’d been used that way before. Magic had crawled between the lines of lyrium on his skin— and more than once, if he had correctly pinned down that squirming nervous feeling in his gut— but he knew with certainty it hadn’t felt like this _._

Faster and softer than any brand, Marian’s mana chased that half-remembered nightmare along the tattoo, overpowering it and leaving him— for the first time— feeling clean and whole. He felt like he was  _hers_. A second heartbeat pounded in his chest—  _not alone_ , it thrummed.  _Never alone again._ He was barely aware of the tears gathering along the edge of his lashes, emotion and pleasure crashing over him in waves as the epicenter of the lightning storm slid down and—

“Oh,  _fuck_  me,” Fenris moaned as Hawke’s tongue teased him, as her mouth closed over him— hot and wet and obscene in the  _best_  fucking ways.

She pulled back to smirk at him as his shaking hands closed over the back of her head. “I rather thought I was.”

***

 

Her magic flowed through the both of them— one of the most intimate acts possible with a mage lover. Only once before had she felt it,  _given_  it, and that had ended as star-crossed as tales came. But here, on her knees, she felt the pounding of Fenris’ heart as well as her own. Her magic linked them, minds meshing together as her tongue stroked along his length. The messy, intense flash of heat that swept through him burst over her as well, left both of them gasping and reeling.

Fenris’ fingers tightened almost painfully in her hair, sliding through the bobby pins and hairspray to clench and tug in encouragement.

Hawke shifted the spell to one hand, pressing just under his navel, and dragged the other along the back of his thigh. Strong, lean muscles trembled under her touch and for a moment— a gasping, sweat-covered, impossibly  _glorious_  second— Hawke felt fucking powerful. The tips of her fingers danced along the seam of hip and thigh before gently cupping his balls. Fenris’ breath hitched and his hips bucked forward, Tevene curses or prayers or endearments falling from his mouth as he panted.

Her tongue flicked over the head of him, swiping along his slit, drawing a sharp, “ _Hawke!_ ” from him. Circulating the current binding them was as easy as breathing, and Hawke moaned around him as he pulled her off with shaking hands, urging her up.

***

He couldn’t think and if he didn’t sit soon, he was going to fall over and drag her with him; his trembling legs felt rubbery, like they might give out at any moment.

Fenris pulled Hawke backwards, towards the bed they’d so far ignored. Even now, he could feel the ghost of her heart beating alongside his, her magic a loose thread tying them together. Without words, she followed his lead, crawling over the mattress until his back rested against the headboard. Then he hesitated, a thin reminder of responsibility rearing its head through the fog.

_Shit._

“Hawke, I—”

“Check the table,” she murmured, hand tangling with his as he reached. She laughed breathlessly as they fumbled, nervous systems too entwined for any graceful movements. “Sorry.” When he was sure he was actually moving his own arm and not hers, he yanked on the drawer next to the bed, fingers groping until he heard the crinkle of foil.

When he pulled the packet out and she plucked it from his hand. “Let me?”

***

Hawke kept her eyes fastened to Fenris’ as she rolled the condom down his length, basking in the way he hissed and arched towards her. There was a thread of anxiety running through the back of her head, asking insidious, cruel questions—  _what if this isn’t real? What if you’ve built him up in your head because you’re desperate? What if he can’t love someone as fucked up as you?_ — but the way he couldn’t tear his eyes from her as she lazily stroked him helped her shut it up.

“Come here,” Fenris murmured, drawing her up to straddle his thighs. He looked thoroughly  _wrecked_ , hair sweat-damp and falling across his brow, eyes blown black in the dim light as he gathered her in his arms. She could feel him pressing against her thigh, hot and hard and fucking wonderful, and still, he flattened a palm between her shoulders and drew her down to kiss her like he had nothing better to do.

Time slipped through her fingers as surely as if she’d tried to cup sand— Fenris could have kissed her for a minute, an hour, or a lifetime, and all she would have to mark the passage of time was the rhythm of their shared breath and the way his moan rumbled through his chest and into hers. His hair tumbled like silk across her skin as he laved a fresh mark bitten across her shoulder, the sharp point of his teeth there and gone before her mind caught up.

“Hawke.” It was a hoarse whisper buried somewhere in her throat. “ _Marian._ ”

_Yes_ , she answered silently, their hands meeting as her hips lifted and he sank into her slow and sweet.

Fenris’ growl of, “ _Fuck_ ,” against her neck would have brought a smirk to her face, had Hawke not been reveling in the slow stretch of his cock filling her, of the way his nails dug into her skin as if he were trying to convince himself of her presence. She’d told Varric this wasn’t one of his movies, but damned if she didn’t feel like some sort of swooning romantic, bubbling over with cliches— wrong or not, cliche or not, with Fenris breathing hard into her skin and his heartbeat in harmony with hers, it felt so much like a homecoming, she had to blink away tears.

He wrapped his other arm around her hips as she rose on her knees, gasping at the drag between them. “Yes,” she hissed. Fuck, but he was  _surrounding_  her, those green eyes locked on hers as she set their pace, pushing them higher and higher. His presence crawled through her mind, foreign and familiar and so  _loved_ — she could feel every movement and emotion, falling deeper into the connection with each breath. The scent of his skin, sweat and sex and something spicy-rich that she assumed was a cologne, made her want to bury herself in his neck and take a bite.

So she did.

Fenris jerked into her and swore, one hand moving to her head as she licked the bite. “Hold on,” his voice rumbled, her only warning as he slid from her and rolled them. Hawke blinked and Fenris caught his weight on trembling arms, closing his eyes.

“Okay?” she whispered, hands slithering up the strong lines of his back. Maker, she could feel the glide of his muscles under his skin, powerful and shiver-inducing.

“ _Yes_ ,” he answered, voice raspy and raw with honesty as he licked into her mouth. A second behind, he eased back into her with a gasp.

_Please_  whispered along their bond, seeking and reassuring and begging. Hawke was too tangled around him to know which of them was asking, and which one answered, but her ankles locked around his waist as he drove into her. Something wordless and rightthrummed between them, and she wailed against his shoulder when his hips  _snapped_  against hers.

She could feel the moment his grip on patience slipped, as he slammed into her, their bond going deeper the closer they got— her nails dragging down his back burned from both sides, her pulse skittered wildly beneath his lips. Every thrust and growl sent her spiraling higher, building on that delicious, heavy tension curling through her.

“Come on, Hawke,” Fenris challenged, somehow sliding one hand down the seam of their bodies to brush a calloused thumb against her clit. Stars burst behind her eyes and she shuddered, clinging to his shoulders as the first shocks began to ripple through her, driven with his rhythm. “Let me hear you.”

Like a livewire had replaced her spine, everything in Hawke drew up and clenched tight— she could feel her muscles straining, a cramp beginning in her calves as her toes curled and she shook with the  _effort_ — but it wasn’t until he brushed a tender kiss against her ear and whispered, “ _Marian_ ,” that she shattered around him. Somewhere, far away, she could hear the snapping of wood and plaster, could taste the tang of hot metal as lights burst under the wave of magic escaping her, but most of her was still blown to pieces as Fenris followed her over the edge, sighing against her mouth.

***

“Do you think we’ll have to pay for damages?” Fenris’ voice was drowsy against the top of her head. With some effort, Hawke managed to raise her head to look at him, and then at the room that had been a well-furnished suite before, well,  _they_  had happened. Long, jagged cracks ran through the plaster, and two of the three light fixtures hung limp and crumpled from their sockets.

“Nah,” she replied, laying her head back on his chest. “Varric’s brother owns this hotel and Bartrand knows better than to come after me again. Still,” she admitted, thinking about the destruction her magic had wrought during her orgasm and feeling a little… well, proud, “it’s a bit impressive.” She pretended to think, smoothing her fingers over the slope of his throat.  “Maybe I’ll send him a fruit basket?”

Fenris choked, and she could faintly still feel him— the laugh that bubbled up in his throat, the wave of amusement-exasperation-delight that wound through him, echoed through her, and back 'round again— and the kiss he brushed across her damp forehead was followed with a murmur of, “You’re  _awful._ ”

Her last coherent thought as she drifted off was,  _And you love it._

***

When Hawke woke, sunlight streamed through the cracked balcony door, lighting a golden strip across Fenris’ face. Sometime in the night, their bond had finally fizzled out, leaving the two of them tucked back into their own respective skins— she found that she missed it, a bit, as much as she was glad to be back in her own head.

“Is this where we talk?” Fenris asked without opening his eyes. His arm tightened around her reflexively, as if afraid she’d pull away.

_Leaving hurt him as much as me,_  she realized. Whether that secret was left over from their hearts tangling together, or whether she’d always known and hadn’t wanted to face it, didn’t matter. What mattered was that every line of Fenris’ body was braced as if waiting for her to break his heart.

“Yes,” Hawke said, tracing the line of his jaw with her thumb. “I realized something that night, sometime between leaving your door and arriving at mine. Something I… didn’t want to deal with.”

He made a noncommittal noise, but she could feel his heart-rate pick up where their chests were pressed together.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. It had been years since she’d spoken these words aloud, and part of her was terrified that by saying them, she’d jinx this too. Losing Anders had hurt, but it had been a soft pain— a gradual growing apart as the hollow where he’d been had steadily filled with other things, as he’d lost himself in medical classes and she’d found herself in acting. Losing  _Fenris_ … her heart clenched at the thought.

“Hawke?” Fenris’ eyes were open now, brows furrowed in concern. His hand glinted wetly and she realized she’d started tearing up. “What is it, Hawke?”

_No choice but to take the leap and pray faith doesn’t leave you hanging._

“I love you,” she whispered. “I don’t know when, or— or how or why. Not really. And to try to explain those things... feels disrespectful.” She sniffed, unable to stop touching him, unable to pull away. Just  _waiting. “_ But I do.”

Fenris was silent for a long moment, and she could almost feel him thinking her words over. Hawke tried to be patient, respectful, and in response, her anxiety started to ratchet up. It had just reached the  _you’re unlovable and should leave for good this time_  portion of its usual rant when he spoke.

“Then why did you leave?”

“...I was afraid,” Hawke admitted. “I felt— vulnerable. It’s not something I deal— dealt— with well.” With a sigh, she drew his brow down to rest against hers. “I’m sorry, Fenris. I never meant to hurt you.”

Another soft, unreadable sound.

“This isn’t just about emotion, Hawke,” he said, serious. “We aren’t hormone-addled teens fumbling in the dark and calling it love. It’s a—”

“A choice,” she finished for him. “I know. I didn’t want to make a choice that night, and ended up making one anyway. Now, though…” Hawke let her eyes roam over his face, over the smudged eyeliner some harried make-up artist had wrestled onto him, over the tangled silver hair and undeniable, almost-lazy  _softness_  that came with waking up after a long night like theirs. “I know what my choice is.”

He sighed, winding his fingers through her hair. “Hawke, I can’t promise— I don’t know who I  _was_. Can you really choose that?”

_Can you really choose me_? is what he meant.

The question had to be asked. Had  _been_  asked, over and over again, each time she stopped herself from marching up to his door and fixing her goddamn mistake. A man like Fenris was bound to have some broken parts— hell, she’d already seen some of them. He had a past, somewhere out there, and the scars crisscrossing his hands were a story and warning both— whatever, whoever, he had been, it hadn’t been peaceful.

Could she handle that?

“Yes,” Hawke murmured against his lips, repeating the vow, the promise, she’d made the night before. “I can.”


	4. Well, Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Note to self. Varric pressed both thumbs between his brows, exhausted beyond words. Remind Daisy to hire someone to slap me at regular intervals if I tell the casting director how to do her job again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo guess what exploded on me? *nervous laugh* Yeah, I have a whole plot and universe and _someone send help, this story is eating my soul._

**Free Marches | Kirkwall | 7 months after Champion 3’s premiere**

***

Hawke * Varric * Cassandra

***

The first thing she noticed was that her toes were cold. Second was the muted notes of a piano climbing the stairs to nudge her awake.

Hawke sighed and flopped herself over, blinking in the sunlight cutting across her bed. Dust motes danced lazily in the beam, swirling like the flow of the Fade as she dreamed. For a brief moment, she wondered if she _were_ still wandering the Fade, but no. Outside of nightmares, toes didn’t get cold in the dreamworld. And there was something in the soft, golden quality of the sunlight that told her it was _early_ — far too early for Hawkes to be up and about. Even on her most anxious, self-loathing days, Hawke wouldn’t torture herself by dreaming about waking up this early.

Out of habit, she stretched out her hand for Fenris— and touched an empty pillow. That wasn’t unusual, though, and neither was the single flower resting just under her fingers. Without even looking, Hawke’s lips curved in a pleased smile; it would be a violet, a deep bluesy purple, and it would match the cluster of violets in the small window box hanging from her balcony. It had become their _thing_ , their little routine, if he woke up before she did (which was often, to be fair).

She knew it was silly, and _ridiculously_ cheesy— after all, hadn’t she told Varric that life wasn’t one of his movies?— but part of her thought Fenris might enjoy such silent expressions of emotion. Her broody elf had gotten uncomfortable with overt displays of affection in the past, and she’d learned to accept the compromises they came to.

Like violets.

It was hard to believe that it had only been a few months. Fenris had slid into her life so easily, it sometimes felt like he’d always been there. Or maybe like he was meant to be there, as foolish as that sounded in a modern world. And to think, it was, for once, not her fault— Hawke’s life had gotten upturned by one of her best friends with too much time on his hands and a heart of… well, not gold, really. Varric had a bit too much snark to be real gold. Heart of tarnished copper?

No, that sounded too insulting, even for friends who gave each other shit.

“I can’t do this without _coffee,”_ Hawke groaned into her hands. “Why does no one let me sleep until a decent hour?” she asked her ceiling. Rhetorical question, obviously— if the ceiling had answered, that might have been too weird even for her.

***

In the end, it wasn’t the lure of coffee that brought Hawke yawning down the stairs, though it didn’t stop her from grabbing a cup. Nor was it the promise of Orana’s excellent cooking, or wondering what mischief the demon-in-fur Anders had foisted on her was up to.

Plainly put, she missed her elf.

Their nights— and days— together weren’t a given thing: they both needed some space of their own, time in their own heads, and Fenris had so many boundaries because of his memory. Living apart made the most sense, given how _new_ everything was, given how until Varric intervened, they hadn’t wanted to admit feeling anything but intense dislike. But there were days where Hawke keenly felt his absence, peeking around corners expecting to see him.

When she found him, Hawke had to stop for a moment and just… _look._ Fenris in front of an audience was poetry in motion, all lean-muscled limbs and charming-but-mildly-infuriating arrogance. With a headtilt and a rare smile, he could charm anyone into blushes and babbling; few realized that it was as much a mask as Hawke’s wide-eyed starlet appeal.

But Fenris observed candidly was something _sacred._

For a moment, Hawke fiercely wished she were an artist. The scene in front of her was too… every word she could think of— beautiful, elegant, _breathtaking_ — was trite, a pale description of perfection. His back was deliciously bare, all sun-dark skin and silver lyrium swirls, and his hair was getting long enough to brush the top of his shoulders. The bench of her years-unused piano sat near the window facing the small plot of land attached to the Amell estate, where a sunbeam was lucky enough to grace his shoulders, gleaming and gentle and _soft_. Those long fingers— capable of holding a sword, of winding through her hair, of driving her mad— danced over the keys, stringing notes together that wrapped around her heart and _squeezed_.

Her snooty, arrogant hellbeast of a cat lay across the top of it, one paw draped lazily over the side, tail swishing as he purred.

“Going to stand there long, Hawke?” Fenris murmured, the tune he was wrenching out of the instrument gentling, lighter notes playing tag with the emotional thrum of the bass.

Her moment of awe wasn’t broken, exactly, but his quiet amusement reminded her that she had feet that did, in fact, work. And more importantly, arms that were empty. Three strides took her across the room, to where she could drape herself across those warm shoulders, feel his back shift against her chest as he breathed. The two of them were quiet for a long moment, almost breathing in sync as Fenris’ melody wound through the room. There was something in the music, a bittersweet thread twining through it, that told Hawke more than words could about his state of mind.

“Long night?” She brushed her lips against his temple before sliding the violet above his ear.

When he clasped one hand over hers, lacing their fingers together, and replied, “I’ve had worse,” Hawke felt her heart swell. Months instead of years or not, the emotion their relationship filled her with was devastatingly intense at times. She would admit easily, and with an unapologetic laugh, that she was as far from a morning person as was possible, but days like this— Fenris in her arms, a quiet, slowly-waking house, lazily in love— might turn her into one if given a chance.

***

Without warning, he brought his hands crashing down on the keys, a discordant, jarring noise tearing through the sleepy morning. The cat hissed, tail bushed out, and dashed away to glare at them from the stairwell. Hawke, half-lulled back into sleep by the wandering music, jerked awake, tensed and waiting for… _something._

“I saw it again last night,” he sighed by way of explanation, one hand scrubbing across his brow, hard, as if he could _tear_ the hidden memories out if he just dug hard enough. “Sorry,” he said, quieter.

“Nothing new, I assume?” she asked, aching for him. There was a small, smug voice in the back of her head whispering _your fault_ on repeat. Seven months since the premiere of their last film, since the first night she’d temporarily tied their minds together with magic— an already-intimate act, made overwhelming by the lyrium bonded to his flesh— and Fenris had gotten fleeting flashes of the life he had lost. Or, as he said and Hawke agreed, had been stolen from him.

“Nothing,” he confirmed, a bitter twist on his mouth.

“Hey.” Sliding her fingers up the line of his jaw was easy; he resisted only a moment before following her gentle urging, ending with the back of his head resting against her shoulder, eyes fixed on hers. “We’ll figure it out, Fen. Varric and I promised.”

He sighed, gentler than before but so much more _exhausted_ , and cupped the back of her head, an invitation for her to brush her lips across his. “I know,” he murmured. “But unreliable memories of a foggy beach only get us so far, Hawke.”

“We _will_ figure it out,” Hawke repeated, kissing him again as if she could quench the firestorm she’d thrown him into by accident. As her thumbs stroked the sharp points of his jaw, she thought to herself, _We have to._

***

_Note to self._ Varric pressed both thumbs between his brows, exhausted beyond words. _Remind Daisy to hire someone to slap me at regular intervals if I tell the casting director how to do her job again._

It wasn’t that the actor on set— _“Ackermann,” he’d introduced himself eagerly, shaking Varric’s hand with a bone-crushing grip. “Aldric Ackermann, but you can call me Al!”_ — was… bad. Varric wouldn’t say that he’d yet met an actor that was truly _bad._ But the kid wasn’t Fenris or Marian— and, unfortunately for his fellow screening actors, was about as energetic as a new puppy with a bouncy ball.

“—sound, and _fury,_ ” Al was saying, one hand slapped across his chest. Varric winced as he completed the test quote with a flair, ruining any chance he had of gravitas with a beaming grin. “Signifying nothing!”

“Thank you!” Varric called, digging his thumbs in harder. Merrill breezed by him, clipboard tucked under her arm and a smile already shining across her face.

_Thank fuck for Daisy,_ he thought. _I’d be so lost otherwise._

He left her to deal with the hopefuls and dismiss them for the day; with his raging headache and bleeding heart, if the kid had pulled himself together and mustered up some big, shining puppy eyes, he’d have gotten the role anyway. Varric, like Marian and Garrett— and their mother before them—, had a weakness for someone in need of belonging. By the time Marian had graduated college, she’d amassed a veritable horde of strays, just as Varric had three years before her, and most of them had ended up working for or around them as success rained down. Well, until—

“That child had no idea what he was doing,” an accented voice floated across the auditioning stage as he slid from the stool he’d commandeered for a chair. “Wasn’t the right role for him.”

Varric’s head popped up, some inner sense long honed to sniff out talent zeroing in. When he turned and saw the lagging hopeful step from the shadows into the dusty, flickering light, Varric felt a spark of inspiration for the first time in the week he’d been standing in for his casting director.

His first impression was long lines and even longer legs, with an unhurried grace like silk through grasping fingers. Sleek jacket, creased trousers, and a short, no-nonsense haircut slashing across her brow added to the overall impression, worldly and fierce. She looked like a woman with a problem, all furrowed brows and thin-pressed lips bracketed by fine lines. An angry, raw scar cut down her left cheek, almost mirroring the angle of cheekbones that could have cut glass given half a chance, but it didn’t detract from the stunning beauty she did little to enhance.

As her booted feet stepped from concrete to wooden platform, Varric couldn’t tell if the thumping was her walking across his stage or the heartbeat that had suddenly and without leave gone erratic.

_Talk about your tall, dark, and_ _dangerous_ _leading ladies._

“Shall I tell you my take on it, Master Tethras?” she asked, that _voice_ flowing over him. Nevarran, unless he missed his mark, and Varric Tethras? Miss a mark? _Never._

“By _all_ means,” he said around a grin he couldn’t quite control. _Hawke is going to have a field day with this._

The woman took a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut (and didn’t _that_ just send Varric’s mind reeling towards ungentlemanly thoughts against his better judgement). “It is a tale,” she began, voice hitting that _perfect_ pitch between alto and mezzo, “told by an idiot, full of sound and fury—” Her chin dropped and Varric found himself rocking forward on his feet, straining to hear, even as he mouthed the line with her.

“ _—_ signifying _nothing._ ” Her last two words were so full of exhaustion, of raw _emptiness_ , Varric would have hired her on the spot, casting director be damned.

_If_ she’d been there to audition.

Still, Varric was a complex, layered man, a sheen of ‘director’ overlaying his ‘lovable rogue’ days, and he brought his hands together in a slow clap. “Very, _very_ impressive,” he admitted truthfully, offering her a gracious half-bow. “For someone not looking for an audition, you’re better than three-quarters of the people that’ve walked through my door the last week.”

“How do you know I’m not here to work for you?” the woman asked, one brow arching imperially. Varric hated that it made her look both intimidating and more intriguing. “There have been no introductions or the usual round-robin niceties as false as this shell of a house.”

_Oh, she’s good_ , he thought, torn between amusement and admiration. “Varric Tethras, as accused.” He offered her the smile that had dazzled dozens of young, innocent starlets that had flocked to Kirkwall after _Tales of the Champion_ had dropped. “Director, storyteller, adorable street rabble. And you?”

Everything about her read as unamused, save for the smallest, slightest quirk of her mouth, there and gone again before he could blink. She reached two slim fingers inside her jacket, drawing out a small leather wallet. Even before Varric saw the inside, his heart sank; seeing those small pieces of very _official-looking_ paper was never a good sign for a Tethras. Especially when wielded by heart-rendingly beautiful women.

“Cassandra Pentaghast, United Thedosian Council Investigator.” The grace Cassandra walked towards him with was no less than when she’d crossed to his stage, but the languidness had evaporated; instead, she moved like a fighter, muscle and _power_ rather than delicacy. Something insidious and vaguely twisted whispered in the back of Varric’s mind that she would have no trouble taking him to the floor— and he half-thought he might even thank her for it.

_Well, shit._

***

“Varric…”

Varric patted the hand that had reached out and grabbed his after Cassandra had left, looking at Merrill with unbearable fondness. “Don’t worry, Daisy,” he found himself saying, while his inner monologue was immolating itself with a great deal of incoherent screaming. “It’ll be all right. Everything about the studio is above board and legal. The worst thing she’ll find is—”

“Fenris,” Merrill interrupted him. “The worst thing she can find is _Fenris._ ”

_Shit._ Merrill had a point. Taking Fenris under the studio’s wing had caused more than a few problems, more than Fenris knew about, but when he thought about it—

“Nah. Athenril’s a top-class criminal,” Varric said, hoping to reassure them both. “A surprisingly moral one, too— practically Kirkwall’s own Robin Hood. No way she’d have left anything to be a red flag.”

Merrill didn’t look convinced.

He tried again, even knowing there was a damn good reason he was in the director’s chair and not on stage. “People in the film business change their names and reinvent backstories all the time— just look at that, uh, whatshisface. De Launcet.”

“Varric, stop,” Merrill said, laying her hand over his. He looked at her then, those big, green eyes focused on him. Too many people treated Merrill like she was brainless because she was his assistant and had a generally sunny disposition, but here and now, Varric was reminded of just _how_ fiercely intelligent his Daisy was. “I have a bad feeling about this. Promise me you’ll be careful?”

“Of course I will, Daisy,” he said, smiling for her benefit.

***

Varric sighed, and tried to ignore the way his shaking hand caused the whiskey to splash on his desk.

He hated lying to Merrill, but something about this whole situation was _off_ and he knew, he _knew_ , he wouldn’t be able to resist the mystery _._ Unlike most of his race, it seemed, Varric’s besetting sin was curiosity. For a director who’d gotten his start in writing mysteries, he couldn’t _stand_ them. Not knowing things was Varric’s idea of a personal hell, and the itch-and-burn of a mystery was as uncomfortable as waking up in the Rose, and without any of the fun part to make up for it.

The name Cassandra Pentaghast struck fear in Kirkwall and there were few in the film business that didn’t know of her— she was their boogeyman, their nightmare come to life. More than one studio funded by dirty money had gone down because of her, even if it was only a rumor that she’d questioned staff members.

But what the hell was she doing in _his_ studio?

The odds of Pentaghast finding anything to haul him away for on the studio side of things were slim; Bartrand kept Tethras Studios funded legally, if only just. But Varric didn't know what sort of legal gymnastics he pulled to launder the money so that it was above reproach, and that was a weakness he hadn’t anticipated. Or had, but had decided to ignore in favor of not getting stomach ulcers.

_This better not bite me in the ass, brother,_ he thought darkly.

No, his primary concern was precisely what Merrill had said: Fenris. Years of investigating him had left Varric with more questions than answers— no one had any idea who he was or where he’d come from. And the only mention of binding lyrium to skin was a crumbling, ancient text that had cost Varric a small fortune to acquire and still managed to be completely worthless; according to the book, no one had survived the attempts to make a lyrium ghost in over a thousand years. The only clues Varric had left were all part of Fenris himself.

“You’d think a kid covered in lyrium tattoos would stick out or leave a trail,” he’d told Athenril as she hunched over her sleek and shady-looking laptop while Fenris more or less passed out in his back room. “But I can’t find anything. He may as well have been born of the Maker himself.”

He was so wrapped up in thoughts that the ringing of his cell— his _second_ cell, he should amend— interrupted him. “Oh, shit,” he muttered, pulling it out of the desk drawer. The second he hit accept, Bartrand’s voice broke the sound barrier in pitch and speed.

“Why was there a Council Seeker at your studio?” he demanded, tinny and shrill. “And why didn’t you tell me about her?”

Varric sighed, eyeing the level of the decanter on his desk. There _might_ be enough in there to get him through this conversation.

Maybe.

If he was lucky.

***

If she stared at her coffee any harder, it might stand up in the cup and stare back.

“You’re brooding again,” Leliana’s voice murmured in her ear, a thousand miles and most of a continent away. “I can _hear_ you brooding.”

Cassandra’s smile was slow and reluctant, but real for the first time since she’d touched down in Kirkwall. “I am not,” she lied, taking a hit off the cold sludge pretending to be coffee with a grimace. “ _Ugh_.”

A snort. “Coffee that bad?”

“Are you spying on _me_ , now?” Cassandra leaned back in her chair with a groan, cracking her neck as she switched her cell phone to the other ear. “We have an agreement, Nightingale _._ ”

Leliana laughed, bright and cheerful and not at all the laugh of a government assassin who technically didn’t exist. “I’m not,” she admitted. “But I do know you, and I know how your coffee consumption increases when cases go sour.”

She wasn’t wrong, as much as Cassandra didn’t like being predictable, but she supposed almost a decade of working in the same office gave Leliana an unfair advantage. And sour was as apt a description as any for the clusterfuck that had landed her in Kirkwall: folders, photographs, and floor plans were scattered across the table in her tiny hotel room, each one committed to memory and each one a reminder of how much Cassandra had riding on this investigation.

“Has anyone gone digging for me?”

_Has anyone noticed that I’m gone?_ is what she meant.

Leliana’s end of the call went quiet as she caught the real question— no, not just quiet. _Silent._ The Council office where they spent most of their lives knew that particular silence, knew to tip-toe through the halls, to always, _always_ knock before entering, and to be grateful they still drew breath when their business was concluded. On the days that ominous silence seeped from under Nightingale’s door, interns held their breath and didn’t smile until they were far past the spymaster’s office.

Cassandra just sat there, equally silent. It was a battle of wills and, partner or not, friend or not, the Seeker didn’t know the meaning of the word _flinch_.

Finally, Leliana answered, her voice quiet and hiding a lethal promise somewhere under the words. “No. And if they know what’s good for them, they won’t.” She disconnected the call with a click, leaving Cassandra alone with her thoughts.

They had worked together for close to a decade, the Seeker and the Nightingale, but even to her, Leliana was living up to her reputation of being cryptic. That reputation wasn’t helped by Leliana’s delight in sweeping through the halls with a glower on her sharp face, terrorizing the newer recruits and quietly amusing the veterans like Cassandra. By their connections, and occasional shared cases, Cassandra had earned her own _reputation_ — more by determination and stubbornness than by stealth.

That’s what she needed right now: that single-minded doggedness. Certainly more than unsatisfactory hotel coffee.

With a sigh, she looked at her empty mug and scowled as she refilled it. Determination she may need but bloody _void_ , this coffee could eat a hole through pure silverite. For all of a minute, Cassandra stared into the cup then gave in with a sigh and pulled out the most recent file, letting it fall open to the pages she spent the most time looking at. Five photos, each showing the same murderer’s work. Each showing another soul crying out for justice. Her eyes glossed over the first four, already memorized, analyzed, filed neatly in her mind.

The last was still a punch to her gut, though, as potent as the day she’d found him.

He’d been sat in a chair, the memory of the scene as clear as it had been six months ago when she’d first walked it. Some days, she wasn’t sure she’d ever get the smell of old blood and torture out of her mind. His chains had been left to lie on the floor, cold, brutal-looking things made of black iron and twisted through with some sort of magic to make the locks unpickable— their mages and arcanists couldn’t identify it.

They’d left wide, raw bruises on his wrists; her own had ached in sympathy as she forced herself to look at them. She had to honor his suffering, the pain he’d died in, so that when she sought justice, she knew the exact extent of the debt she was calling in.

_Daniel._

He’d been handsome once, the victim (and calling him a victim still made her spine try to crawl out through her ribcage). Cassandra remembered the day he’d assigned himself to her, at least a decade younger than her and all sharp eyes and a smile as wide as the Vimmarks. When she’d asked him why he wanted to join her office, the smile had softened into something less charming but more sincere. “Because you’re the best,” he’d replied, as simple a truth as ‘water is wet.’

“You do realize you can’t assign yourself, yes?” she’d asked, intrigued enough to listen.

“We both know you’re going to take me,” he’d said, all the levity draining from his face and leaving _determination_ in its place. “I have the scores, the skill, and I have the drive.” Then he’d leaned back, caught and held her gaze— something most recruits couldn’t bring themselves to do. “I also beat your marksmanship records.”

She’d signed the paperwork the next day to take him on as her apprentice. Whether out of pride, interest, or boredom was a friendly bickering point between them for years.

The last time Cassandra and Daniel had been face to face, they were celebrating his engagement. A full— and well-decorated— officer of the Council, long since moved from under her department, but friends still; a bond struck over late nights, stakeouts, and awful coffee. For a Fereldan fallen off the turnip truck and straight into law enforcement, Daniel had done remarkably well for himself. Even his blunders were smiled on by the Maker; the last one had netted him a sweet Marcher nurse with a smile as bright as sunshine. “A good husband for someone like me, right?” he’d teased that night, enough champagne in his system to allow himself swept into dancing and loose tongues. “He can patch me up when the job gets rough.”

_Maker,_ she’d been so proud of him.

Cassandra forced herself to look at the photo again, tracing the way the mysterious red substance had crawled through his veins, turning his features grotesque. Small, bloody crystals grew from his skin in what was an agonizing process, surely. A pitiful way to die, bound and helpless, body slowly corrupting around him. Testing done on his body— tests that she couldn’t think about or she’d hit something again— tied the red substance to lyrium.

That had brought her to Kirkwall.

If anyone would know about lyrium in all its forms, especially new ones, it would be the dwarves. And from the word in Leliana’s copious, well-organized blackmail files, the key to the dwarves was a Tethras brother.

***

Hawke jerked herself awake as her heart pounded wildly in her throat, barely making it to the bathroom before she was emptying the meager contents of her stomach. Shaking, she looked through the open door and rested her clammy forehead on the cool porcelain. For once, Fenris lay sleeping quietly in her bed, silver hair spread over the pillow and gleaming in the faint moonlight; the sheer gratitude Hawke felt for him not being woken up by nightmares— or her— was almost as strong as her own shivering exhaustion.

_“I’m sorry,” she’d apologized over dinner, flushing when his green eyes pinned her to the spot._

_“For?”_

_With the occasional stutter and wild gesticulation, Hawke had managed to convey her theory that their mental bonding at the movie premiere was the event triggering his memory. Fenris had just stared, face unreadable until Hawke stood and scraped her_ _un_ _touched plate into trash, the screech of utensils on dishware grating in the silence. As she’d stood, barely feeling the water running over her hands as she scrubbed the plate— Orana always told her to leave the dishes but it made Hawke feel guilty— Fenris’ arms had snaked around her waist._

_“I didn’t mean to,” she’d whispered, closing her eyes against the burning in her eyes. Fenris’ simple, “I know, Hawke,” had been enough to have her slumping in relief._

_“But,” he’d continued, “it’s more than I’ve had in the years since I came to Kirkwall.” Hawke had waited, shoulders tensed against what she knew he was going to ask. “I need you to do it again.”_

“Maferath’s _balls,_ ” Hawke whisper-swore, pushing herself up and closing her eyes against the mess in the toilet, blindly groping for the handle. As she splashed some water on her face, there was a raw ache in her chest, and nausea crashed over her in another wave as she prodded at the emotion.

A booming _NO!_ and _never again!_ rang through her head and she had to grip the edge of her sink to keep her knees from buckling and an already-bad night from getting worse— Anders would never let her live down giving herself a concussion by falling in her own bloody bathroom.

But that ache bloomed, full and crushing and _visceral_ and when Hawke brushed her mana over it, Fenris’ voice cried out in her head. She echoed his cry, sinking to her knees— somewhere in the twisting memory, she saw flashes of hands reaching for her and lashed out wildly, scrambling to get as far away from the bone-deep feeling of _defilement_ as she could.

“Hawke. _Hawke!_ ”

Eyes blind, bruises and aching parts beginning to make themselves known, Hawke stilled.

“Fen?” she croaked, bile climbing up the back of her throat again. Whatever crossed her face, Fenris must have understood: his arms clamped around her shoulders and then she felt cold porcelain under her palms. For the second time, Hawke emptied her stomach, retching with such force, she felt droplets of water— she _prayed_ it was water— on her face, on and on until there was nothing but acid scorching her throat.

She didn’t protest when she heard the toilet flush, or the sink running. She didn’t protest when Fenris gently tilted her face and wiped a warm, damp cloth over her mouth, but when he slid his arms around her to pick her up, she tensed, hating the there-and-gone-again curl of revulsion that made her grit her teeth. He paused and as her vision slowly cleared, Hawke saw him tilt his head at her in question.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, burrowing into his cautious embrace, needing the solid, grounding warmth of him. Without further protest, he lifted her and took the few steps back to the bed.

“Hawke—”

Whatever he had been about to say was interrupted. Both of them looked at the small, silver phone that Fenris almost never used, the merry, default ringtone suddenly and obscenely loud in the darkness. When he grabbed it and tilted the screen towards her, UNKNOWN glared above the accept button.

“Expecting anyone?” Hawke asked hoarsely, trying for a joke and failing. Fenris just shook his sleep-tousled head and handed her the phone.

“The only person who calls this phone is you,” he said, scrubbing at his face. On his side of the bed, she could see the clock proclaiming it just past two in the morning. “Or Varric, when he wants to be obnoxious.”

As Hawke’s finger hovered over the glowing ACCEPT, the call ended abruptly, the silence ringing in its wake somehow louder than the tinny ringtone had been. Fenris reached for her, to stroke her hair or settle her against his side or something else that never happened; they both jumped when the phone lit up again.

UNKNOWN.

ACCEPT?

Hawke hit the green button and lifted the phone to her ear, proud that her hand barely shook. “Hello?”

There was a beat of silence, a woman’s voice clearly not being what the caller expected, before a watery, wavering voice replied:

_“I need to speak to Leto.”_

Hawke didn’t bother answering, but threw the device as hard as she could, snapping the phone against the wall in an explosion of glass and sparking circuits. There was a growl rumbling somewhere in her chest, a deep-seated need to _protect_ , that had Fenris’ wide eyes turning to her, the green washed out in the pale light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: A 'little chat' with Cassandra, a little Bartrand, and maybe some Marian done-with-your-bullshit Hawke.
> 
> Note: I really love hearing from you guys: your commentary, even if it's just all caps keyboard mashing, really make my day! If you have thoughts, theories, suggestions, requests, be sure to let me know in the comments. And feel free to drop me a line on tumblr (same URL as my username)! :3


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